


Nostalgia

by Northerlywind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Illnesses, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:10:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northerlywind/pseuds/Northerlywind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John visits Sherlock at the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> “In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.”
> 
>  _\- Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being_

John is on the train, gazing out the window. As is so frequently the case nowadays, he sits alone, with no company but the cane beside him. It’s been so long, so long that John can hardly remember the happiest time of his life — _yes, it was that_ — and he struggles to picture the face he once held so clearly in his mind. John wishes he was one of those who carried photos of their- _what? former flatmates?_ He kept no photos — there _were_ no photos — why weren’t there ever any photos? It was an idle wish, though, and over the years the most John had of him was his name in print, on some journal article or another. The name, always alone, while other articles held a plethora of comradeship and collaboration, Sherlock Holmes always worked alone. John doesn’t even get those articles, anymore, and now he knows why they were no longer published. He recalls the email: _John, It is my misfortune to inform you that I have become rather ill, and I would very much like it if you were to visit. The address is..._   

There was no conclusion, simply the perfunctory labeling of facts, and a simple request. John suspects the brevity of the email was for more Sherlock’s sake than sparing John. He had not the faintest idea of the details aside from what he had been given, and after John replied to assent, there was no more communication. John takes a square of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it, revealing the address of _the hospital_ in neatly typed, spaced, block letters. He can’t read anything else these days, and his hand betrays him often. He stubbornly refuses to get glasses; it reminds him that he, like everyone that had once been, is aging. He doesn’t look in the mirror, either.

Sherlock is just a worse reminder.

John blinks. Mustn’t let himself get too sentimental in his remembrance. Forgetting is what keeps him going day after day, and prevents his shuffling off this mortal coil (appropriate — the shuffle that remains with him, the mark of a once psychosomatic limp). Making himself remember is too much, and John tries every day not to. He hates long journeys, for there is nothing to do but let the mind wander. Remembering pains him. He is glad to forget, these days. It is the only thing he’s glad for. 

The train eases to a halt. John is the last to leave; he holds no other belongings save the things in his coat, his clothes, and — of course — his cane. The country is quite different from London; John thinks, perhaps wistfully, that he would have liked to live in the country, in another life.

He holds his left hand firmly at his side whilst the man at the desk looks up the hospital room. The hospital here is quiet, less sharp; much different from a City hospital. He’s not sure if he likes it much, or not, then realizes he should not be liking anything at all. He follows the directions, up the solitary elevator, down the hall, right, down the hall, right, left, door. He starts to shake with the reality of it as he faces the number _216_. John thinks he will recall this number, this room, for the rest of his life — however long or short it may be. He steadies himself, adjusts position, as if he were simply calling at the flat of a friend (in a way, this is true), and knocks once. He opens the door. 

Too much at once. Small window, some light, no trees outside; door shuts, decisive click; hum of machines coupled with silence; bed, slightly raised, with- John has difficulty staying upright. To counter this, he quickly walks towards the lone chair by the bed. He’s not sure what to expect; it is far too much. The figure on the bed looms closer, and with each observation, John recalls features. It’s mostly the same (hair, still curly, still black; unlike John, whose hair is thinning and nearly all gray), but for the cloud of exhaustion, time, _sickness_ that hangs over the room. John, once-but-no-longer-doctor, knows. 

He’s not sure what to do next; Sherlock sits up slightly, the book between his fingers falling to his lap. John doesn’t know who will be the first to speak; likely Sherlock, as John is in a state of shock — there is far too much to remember at once, and it _hurts_ to do so. Memories shout at him in fragments, each piece of the past clicking imperfectly into place, he’s- he doesn’t know what to do.

For the first time, he meets Sherlock’s eyes ( _blue_ ) and sees in them: age, sadness, remembrance, alarm.

“Sit down,” comes the command, and John realizes he is shaking, on the verge of collapse, and does so. His cane clatters to the ground in a sharp staccato of sound. He is still shaking, and he cannot seem to stop, or speak, or do anything at all.

“John, John are you alright?”

There is a shuffling of bed-sheets and this is all wrong, all backwards. John is the one who is supposed to be visiting, he is supposed to be the solid, present one, but it is not so. He’s gripping the sides of his chair, but his left keeps missing, and- 

A nurse rushes over ( _Sherlock must have called for one_ ), and a glass of water is duly pushed into his hand. He stops shaking after a while, Sherlock still leaning sideways on the bed, looking at him, and he hasn’t yet said anything. He takes a drink, the water sloshing slightly over the cup and onto his hand. He sets it down, takes deep breaths.

He looks up, with embarrassment, to notice Sherlock has gone back to his book — _out of boredom? kindness?_ — and John speaks: “I’m sorry.” In those two words, John is apologizing for everything, the past, going back to the day when they both parted ways at the step of 221B Baker St. He is apologizing for not visiting sooner, for not _‘catching up’_ , for not staying, for not being together until the end of their days. He is also apologizing for his state, both physical and mental, and in part for Sherlock’s.

John is relieved to see Sherlock act in character with a wave of a hand ( _attached to IVs_ ) and a simple, “No need.” It’s not forgiveness for everything, for there is much more atonement required for past wrongs. Sherlock puts a marker in the book and sets it down beside him; John takes deep, ragged breaths and soon after quiets. 

Suddenly John feels a need to ask what time it is despite the ever-ticking clock on the wall. He thinks it means something more than it should, but he doesn’t say anything of the sort. Sherlock hates metaphors, and so, in fact, does John. They’re both pragmatic sorts, so what is it that is happening now? 

Sherlock picks up another book and quickly flips through. “Nostalgia,” he reads, “From _nostos_ , a return home, and _algos_ , pain, suffering. A return home to pain and suffering. Not what most mean, usually.” He sets the book down again. John is entranced by the words out of his mouth; this is the longest conversation John has had for ages, not to mention with Sherlock. John laughs, a little, because at this moment it seems appropriate. Sherlock smiles, a little, and puts the book away. John notices an unbalanced stack of books at the side of the bed.

John opens his mouth, searching for something satisfactory to say in this situation. There is nothing that comes to mind, and he closes his mouth. _How are you_ is laughable, terrible. _Remember when_ is painful. _What is that book_ is trivial, dull. Where are the appropriate conversation topics for _meeting ill former-flatmate twenty years since_?There should be a manual. There isn’t. John could write one, after this. He won’t. There are so many words to mean the same thing: nothingness. He wonders why he is here, then he wonders why he would not be. 

“Never thought you’d be settling down in such a quiet place,” he says, almost reproachfully. The words stumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. Too late. Yes, it is too late. John holds his hands in his lap, and is frightened for the response. Does he want to know?

Sherlock sighs, closes his eyes, and replies so quietly John barely hears: “London became too much for me.” _For both of us_ , John wants to add, but that is incorrect; John stayed, Sherlock didn’t. Only now John wonders if it had been the right decision, if any of it had worth in the end. Perhaps it hadn’t. The circumstances were that it was John sitting in the chair and Sherlock in the bed. It could have just as easily been the other way around; or, the chair could be empty. He supposes it’s _good_ that they’ve both lasted so long. What funny words. Maybe they would have both benefited from early deaths. John thinks of them now, and thinks of all the contemplations before. 

John wants to say so much, but he can’t find the words for it. He wants to tell Sherlock things, he wants to make use of the last few- He wants to talk. He wants it to be like it was, but it’s too obvious that it isn’t, and the disparity is too great to pretend. “What is it then?” he says it quickly, as if to get over it; it’s a terrible obstacle that must be surpassed. John suddenly puts his left hand in his pocket. 

There is a long exhale. “I don’t think you want to know,” Sherlock says briefly. He’s right, in part, once-but-no-longer-doctor would know too much, would try to fight against it- It would be better for both of them to not give anything names. Of course he needs to know, but whether he should or he shouldn’t... he could find out later, if he felt like it. Sherlock knows this, and so is leaving the onus to John. Damn it. _Damn it._

“Sherlock-” It’s the first time his name has been said aloud, to him, and it makes everything real. “Why are you doing this?” John is unexpectedly furious for Sherlock bringing him here, for letting him see Sherlock like this, for... Sherlock wanted John here, for whatever reason. For company in his last moments — for the first time, John realizes _Sherlock is alone_ , just as John is. For dragging him down into the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns; Sherlock is scared, and doesn’t want to die alone. John understands, but he doesn’t know if he can forgive. 

“John, I’m sorry.” The exchange of apologies, signifying the end.

“Tell me how much longer.” John says, quickly. Treat it as a statistic, nothing more.

“I can’t.”

“Please.” He needs to know. He has to know or else his nights ever after will be filled with dread, longing, regret. _Regret_. John needs someone to tell him, and he needs for it to be Sherlock. Sherlock is corporeal at this moment, sitting on the bed as casually as a figment of his imagination, but John needs to realize the severity of the situation. " _Please_."

“About a month.” Sherlock closes his eyes, and waits for the response, the explosion, the acceptance, the... end? John stares blindly ahead; he can’t seem to breathe. How could he have become so attached, again, to this figure that occupied a relatively short part of his life? He’s shaking, again, he can feel it. He lowers his head, taking short breaths that do not provide him with any relief. 

“I have to go.” He picks up his cane and leaves as quickly as his body will allow. He’s being selfish, he knows. But so is Sherlock. 

There is a deafening silence, his movements are near-catatonic, and he makes no response to anything at all. On the train, he focuses on the scenery, dissecting every tree, grass, house to its barest of parts to make himself forget. He does nothing else until he unlocks the door. 

Then, as he stares at the darkness in the empty house, he begins to cry.

_A return home to pain and suffering._  



End file.
